Sethra Lavode

by Steven Brust

  "That is not difficult to imagine. And then?"

  "Imagine, moreover, he does not wish to wait for the post."

  "He must be in a great hurry indeed in that case, because, through the posts, I can get a message anywhere in the Empire in three or four days, if it is sufficiently urgent."

  "Well, but we can get this message in three or four hours, my lord."

  "Impossible!"

  "I must do myself the honor of disagreeing, my lord. Indeed, this message which I am prepared to deliver to you left the hand of him who wrote it less than an hour ago."

  "The Gods!"

  "It is as I have the honor to tell you, my lord the Count."

  "How is this possible?"

  "Sorcery, my lord."

  "Sorcery?"

  "Certainly. Goodrow and Niece employ sorcerers—indeed, the niece referred to in the name is a sorceress herself—and they pay sorcerers from other parts of the Empire at a certain rate for each page of a message. These sorcerers all know each other sufficiently well that this communication presents no difficulties, and they are always happy to have a few extra orbs."

  "And so?"

  "Why, all you need to do is come to our offices, and your message will be sent to the agent nearest to the person with whom you wish to communicate, and then delivered by an errand runner such as I." The Teckla punctuated this speech with a bow.

  "It is astonishing," said Khaavren. "And, as an errand runner, you must wear that… that… clothing?"

  "My lord Goodrow pretends that, if his errand runners attract attention, people will ask questions, and we will answer them, and then more people will know of us, and so come to us when they wish messages sent."

  "As far that goes," said Khaavren, "I have no doubt he is right. Only—"

  "Well?"

  "For my part, I should not think the increase in custom worth the indignity of having my name associated with such… clothing."

  "My lord, may I do myself the honor of agreeing with Your Lordship?"

  "Oh, I don't mind that," said Khaavren magnanimously.

  "That is kind of you, my lord."

  "Only—"

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Who is it who wishes to reach me so urgently?"

  "As to that, permit me to look."

  "Oh, I don't mind you looking."

  The Teckla drew forth a moderately heavy sealed paper and, not without a certain amount of display, studied the name upon it.

  "I perceive that you know your symbols," said Khaavren, who never objected to gratifying anyone's self-love, as long as it didn't conflict with his own.

  "Oh, yes, certainly; Your Lordship must understand, it is an absolute requirement for an errand runner in the employ of Goodrow and Niece."

  "That is very well, then. But, as to the name—"

  "Oh, you wish to know that?"

  "Obstinate fool, I asked!"

  "That is true!"

  "Well?"

  "It is from," said the Teckla, slowly and carefully pronouncing each word, "His Venerance, Temma, the Duke of Arylle, Count of—"

  "Aerich!" cried Khaavren. "You have a message for me from Aerich! Quick, hand it over, you idiot."

  "Here it is, my lord."

  Khaavren grabbed the message from the Teckla's hand, ripped it open, and greedily devoured the words. What exactly these words were, we will discover to the reader in due course. For now, however, we will only observe that, upon finishing it, Khaavren turned on his heel and returned to Daro's apartment, where, after greeting her affectionately, he addressed these words to her: "Madam, I have had cause to change my mind, and, in fact, I should like, of all things, to attend to-morrow's entertainment at Castle Black."

  Daro smiled. "I am delighted to learn this, my lord, as I have not been to an entertainment since leaving the court. But, if I may ask a question—"

  "Madam, you may ask ten."

  "Well, to what shall I attribute this sudden change?"

  "Oh, as to that, you may see for yourself," he said, showing her the message.

  This message read as follows: "My dear friend, I am entirely at your service regarding whatever undertaking you may require. If you wish to confer with me, I have been prevailed upon to be to-morrow at Castle Black, where Morrolan is giving an entertainment, and where I know you have been invited. If you wish, I shall be glad to consult with you at your convenience. Please convey my humble respects to the Countess. I remain, as always, your friend, Aerich."

  "Well," said Daro, "that is clear enough. Only—"

  "Yes?"

  "How are we to get there? You perceive, my lord, that not only is this entertainment to be held seventy leagues away, but it is also a mile in the air."

  "My understanding is that the Lord Morrolan is prepared to levitate his guests up to the castle, so then, we need not worry about the vertical mile."

  "Well, but there are still the horizontal seventy leagues."

  "That is true."

  "So then?"

  "It seems we must teleport."

  Daro frowned. "Yes, I know that teleports are now simplicity itself for a skilled sorcerer. But, do we know anyone capable of such a thing?"

  Khaavren reflected upon this question, which proved that it was a good one. "I will attempt to discover this," he said.

  Taking his leave of the Countess, Khaavren returned once more to the front hallway, where to his surprise he found that the Teckla was still waiting. "Well?" he said. "Did you wish for something?"

  "Only to know if there is a reply, my lord."

  "No, there is no reply."

  "Then, will there be anything else?"

  "What else could there be?"

  "Oh, as to that, I don't know, my lord, only that I am to ask."

  "Well, no, there is nothing else."

  "Very good, my lord," said the Teckla, who then bowed respectfully and left for the servants' entrance with an obscurely disappointed expression on his countenance.

  Khaavren put on his sword, hat, and cloak, and left through the front door, where, the instant he was outside, he found his old comrade, the current ensign of the Imperial Guard, on duty. He said, "Sergeant," this being that gentleman's name, he being the son of an old comrade of Khaavren from the days before the Interregnum.

  "Yes, Captain?" said Sergeant.

  "I am required to be in the duchies. What is the fastest way to get there?"

  "Why, by teleporting, Captain."

  "Yes, but, alas, I do not know how."

  "The court wizard is adept at this."

  "This is personal, Ensign, and I am, as you know, no longer in the Imperial service."

  "Then the fastest method would involve finding a sorcerer who has set out his public mark and who specializes in teleportation."

  "There are such?"

  "Oh, certainly."

  "I had begun to suspect this might be case."

  "Several of them, to my certain knowledge."

  "Recommend one, then."

  "I shall be glad to do so, Captain."

  "Well?"

  "There is a sorcerer who works on the Street of the Candlemakers who is, I'm told, acquainted with many places around the Empire. You perceive, what determines the value of such a sorcerer is how many places he knows."

  "Why should this be?"

  "I am not a sorcerer, my lord, but I am told that it requires a good knowledge of the landscape in order to safely teleport."

  "Well, I am no sorcerer either, but that seems reasonable."

  "Therefore, the more places a sorcerer knows, the closer he is likely to be able to place you near to your destination."

  "Yes, I understand. Where on the Street of the Candlemakers?"

  "Facing directly on the market circle near Ash Street. Number thirty-three or thirty-four, I believe. I know that it is next to a hatter, because I went there to get my hat blocked."

  "And permit me to say, Ensign, that the hatter did a good job of work. I shall have to keep him in mind,
as my own hat is soon going to require the same treatment."

  "He uses boiling water, Captain."

  "Boiling water?"

  "To make steam, and the steam softens the hat, and this permits him to reshape it. And then he slides a certain amount of wire inside the fabric around the brim, so that it holds its shape, and then stitches the fabric together over the wire."

  "Wire? Inside the fabric?"

  "As I have had the honor to tell you, Captain."

  Khaavren removed his hat and studied it for a moment, then shrugged and clapped it down firmly on his head. "I believe I will stay with what I know," he said. "But, certainly, I thank you for the information."

  "You are most welcome, Captain. And may I permit myself to wish you a pleasant and successful journey?"

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  Khaavren then made his way to the stables, where he called upon his stable-boy to have a horse saddled, which task was performed promptly (the confusion over Imperial horses being stabled with Khaavren's and Daro's personal horses having been settled some weeks before). This being done, the stable-boy assisted him to mount, after which he set out through the manor gates and so onto the street.

  After the inevitable delay required to ride across the city, he found himself outside of the thin wooden door, painted green, of a shop next to a hatter's. Upon entering, he was greeted by a gentleman who appeared to be a Jhegaala. On the floor was a large circle crisscrossed with many lines, and on the walls were several maps of different parts of the Empire with dozens of small red circles drawn on them. The opposite wall was rilled with a single map of the entire Empire—or, to be precise, the area that had been the entire Empire before the Disaster.

  The Jhegaala was dressed in simple breeches, with a sort of thin singlet over a plain shirt with thin sleeves. He had rings on two of his fingers, a necklace containing a small pendant or amulet, and shoes without buckles. When Khaavren entered, he had been reading a book (Khaavren, always the curious Tiassa, looked for the title but failed to see it), which he now put down as he rose and bowed. "I wish you a good day, my lord, and I bid you welcome. Did you wish to arrange a teleport?"

  Khaavren returned the salute and said, "You are exactly right, sir. I require a teleport for myself and my lady, for to-morrow evening."

  The other bowed. "Very good, my lord. Where would you like to go?"

  "Are you familiar with the county of Southmoor?"

  The Jhegaala frowned. "If Your Lordship would do me the kindness to point it out on the map."

  "I will do so at once."

  "So much the better."

  Khaavren did so, and at once the Jhegaala said, "Ah! Yes! So, then, you are going to Castle Black?"

  "Why, yes. How did you know?"

  "I have several requests for such, although the others did not identify the county, or else I should have recognized it at once."

  "I see. And so, can you do it?"

  "I believe I can bring Your Lordship tolerably close."

  "How close is tolerably. You perceive, I wish to arrive at a particular hour, and so I must regulate the time of the teleport according to the distance to be traveled to the destination."

  "My lord, I can bring you to the village of Nacine, which is, in fact, within the county of Southmoor, and, from what you indicated, only two hours' ride by carriage to your destination."

  "So much the better."

  "Now, as to the fee—" said the Jhegaala, with a slightly embarrassed bow.

  "Oh, yes. I had not considered this. What is required?"

  "For two of you, it will be six orbs."

  "Very well. Do you wish it now?"

  "Oh, no, my lord. When you arrive, there will be time."

  "I should prefer to pay you now, so that the Countess need not be witness to such matters."

  "Very well, my lord."

  Khaavren counted out the coins (observing by accident that two of them had been stamped with Zerika's face, proving that the mints, at least, had accepted her as Empress), which the Jhegaala accepted with a bow.

  "Then," said Khaavren, "I will return, with my wife, at the seventh hour after noon."

  "I shall do myself the honor of expecting you, my lord."

  In this way, Khaavren arranged to be at Castle Black on the following day.

  Chapter

  the Seventy-Third

  how history was changed by the flight of a pen across a room

  It was very nearly the sixth hour after noon when Her Majesty, with no ceremony whatsoever, took the pen she held in her hand and flung it across the room so that it struck the opposite wall, leaving a black stain to mark its point of impact. She accompanied this action with a soft curse barely vocalized, and an exhalation of breath in the form of a sigh.

  Insofar as they understood, matters were coming together splendidly for Kâna and his cousin Habil until Her Majesty's pen struck the wall of the chamber in Whitecrest Manor that was reserved for Imperial use.

  The reader might wonder how there can be a relationship between the schemes and plans of Kâna and the action of Her Majesty. We consider this question not only reasonable, but even insightful, and we extend our compliments to the reader for having thought to ask it. More than our compliments, however, we propose to give to the reader an answer, and without delay.

  In order to do so, however, there are a few details with which the reader must become acquainted.

  Khaavren rarely saw Her Majesty during this period—that is, during the hours and days that had expired since his resignation. Although they shared a roof, as it were, the Empress kept very much to the covered terrace, or to her apartments, which could be reached without passing through any part of the Manor in which Khaavren could be found. In point of fact, we should say that he rarely saw anyone, spending much of his time on the uncovered terrace with Daro when the weather was kind. The only exception was Pel, who, though he remained near Her Majesty, did, from time time, pay visits to Khaavren—visits which the Tiassa enjoyed immensely.

  As we have brought up the enigmatic Pel, we should say that, whatever his plans and schemes might have been, no signs of them were apparent during this period: he went about his business as Her Majesty's Discreet, and if he continued, as was his wont, to collect information, he kept it to himself and did nothing with it that can be identified even at this stage.

  Lord Brimford—that is to say, the Warlock—was rarely seen around Whitecrest Manor, which is a tribute to his abilities if nothing else is, although, to be sure, from time to time the muddy prints of a dog had to be cleaned up in the hallway outside of Zerika's apartment.

  The reader must also understand that the Empress had, for the last year, been engaged, without a break, in a sort of work that was particularly irksome to her, as it required cajoling of persons and shuffling of papers, and as, moreover, she wasn't used to it. To judge by the color of the Orb, she spent most of her day in a state of constant annoyance, with occasional moments of melancholy.

  All this was known, by some means, by Kâna and his cousin, and, in particular, the resignation of the annoying Tiassa was exactly on schedule, according to their plan. The trap for Tazendra had been laid and was ready to be sprung on an instant, which trap would also, as a secondary result, make certain of the troublesome Lyorn Aerich. The plans for the invasion by the islanders was progressing, a means had been found to neutralize the Necromancer (and, even more important, the Orb), a stratagem had been found that would render useless the foul Eastern magic that had been so effectually employed against them, and, now, the necessary break had been made between Her Majesty and Khaavren. All was going well, as far as they knew.

  And, even had they somehow been able to observe Her Majesty at the critical moment, they would not have been able to guess that her precipitate action might threaten their carefully laid schemes—that, indeed, this simple action, by itself, provided the knife that would cut the snarls and knots of the intricate tapestry they had woven.

  And the
beginning of this unraveling, that is the first loosening of joints that permitted a seepage of water into the carefully constructed vessel (if the reader will permit us to mix metaphors in mid-stream before the tapestry is even hung), was accompanied by the harsh metallic sound caused by the pen striking the wall at the sixth hour after noon.

  The pen had begun life some forty years ago as one of the interior wing feathers of a stunted lichbird, or that kind which is called a wader in some part of the Empire. The owner of this feather was a young boy who sometimes cut purses on Lower Kieron Road, sometimes begged on the Twisty Way, and sometimes ran errands for Lessor & Daughters, Bronze- and Tin-smiths, on Cliffside Street. He had found the feather, discarded, from the pluckings of the bird, which had been intended for a meal served by a local wine-merchant, and at once recognized its usefulness, wherefore he solemnly presented it to Lessor, who, with equal solemnity, presented him with a bright copper penny.

  Lessor also recognized the perfect splendor of this feather, and at once took it back into his shop, where he made a pen of it, had it covered in bronze, and then prominently displayed it, with a small plaque indicating its price. There it remained for many years, along with whistles, touch-it glass housings, knockers, and other samples of his wares. When the Empress entered the city, in a rare burst of loyalty, he inscribed upon it, "To Her Majesty, From Her Devoted Servant Lessor & Daughters, Number 4 Cliffside Street, Adrilankha," and had it sent to her, for which he received a polite note written by one of Her Majesty's scriveners.

  It was, to be sure, an eminently successful pen, rarely splotching, fitting her fingers splendidly, and capable of holding sufficient ink for nearly a full line of Her Majesty's fine, elegant hand. Indeed, Zerika's decision to throw the pen across the room as if it were a dart and the wall an enemy had nothing whatever to do with the characteristics of the pen itself, but, rather, with the amount of time she had spent using it, which was, in her Imperial opinion, far too much of late.

  The construction of the Palace had begun, and, indeed, progressed to the point where she expected to be able to live and work there within only a few years, but there was still a great deal left to decide upon it, and she was frequently interrupted by designers and architects who would ply her with questions that they could not take it upon their heads to answer. The more weighty question of securing the Empire—which meant securing the agreement of all the Houses that she was, in fact, the Empress—required even more effort. It seemed that a hundred emissaries a day would enter, to be bullied, cajoled, or entertained; and a thousand letters had to be written, many of them signed with her own hand—that is to say, her own pen. Indeed, it seemed to her that she had been working, without a pause, for something like a hundred years, although a hundred days was, in fact, closer to the mark.